Dark Wings: Chapter I
I've been playing a lot of Assassin's Creed: Unity recently. Kudos to Ubisoft for setting the last pair of games in two of my three favourite periods of history. Now all we need is Assassin's Creed: Ragnarok to complete the set.
Anyway, digressions. The quality of writing in this chapter makes me cry. Who would have thought it would be a year to the day that I started writing this? Hopefully, the prose isn't too jolting. Oh, and thanks to all the readers, past and (hopefully) future. I hope you all enjoy reading this installment as much as I enjoy writing it!
As always, comments are ♥
Chapter I
An Unfortunate Situation
The sound of shouting was an ever-constant euphoria. All across the square, people stood, pushed against one another and cheered, each trying to move as close as they could to the large wooden platform at its centre, and the one who stood atop it.
He was a tall man, but young - arguably far too young to stand where he was. His clothes consisted of a simple dark tunic and boots, and the sun-coloured locks of his hair fell past his shoulders. He passed his eyes over the crowd before him, scrutinised each individual face as well as he could. There was no kindness there, no concern. Even the children shouted and waved their fists in anticipation.
Of course, he reasoned. After all, it wasn't often that this town saw an execution - or three, at that.
The man looked left, at the other two standing on the platform with him. The one furthest away was a man in his middle years, and the second a young girl. Though dirt-strewn, her face was pretty. What a shame that someone with so much potential would have their life ended so soon.
A sudden strike between his shoulder blades brought the man's attention back to the present. Grimacing, he turned his eyes to the detested noose that hung before him, then back to the audience. Their voices quieted as a figure stepped up onto the platform. His whole aura, from his lush outfit to the way he walked, suggested superiority - something which made the man's stomach lurch in disgust.
“A fine day, yes” he exclaimed, strutting to the centre of the platform. “A fine day for an execution - am I right?”
Once again, the crowd erupted into vigorous roars. Despite his hatred, there was one thing the blond man admired about Vernon Ster, and that was his ability to orchestrate a crowd with such natural ease. He watched as he spouted a few more meaningless lines, then headed over to the first man. The rope had already been placed around his neck.
“And now, our first - a thief.” Ster rested a hand on his victim's shoulder. The man regarded it with wide eyes.
“P-please,” he stammered. “Please...”
“Hmm, perhaps,” said Ster. He paused for a moment, as if deliberating something, but then his eyes narrowed. “Then again...”
With a simple nod, the handle was pulled, the door opened and the man plummeted through it. There was an audible crack as the rope snapped his neck, and he was left hanging between the wooden planks of the platform, motionless.
The guards were already working on the woman, fighting against her struggles to force her head through the noose. The brief sound of whimpering filled the air. Then the handle was pulled, and the crowd roared vigorously in response.
The smell of something hot rose up to the man. Clearly, someone was selling pastries nearby. How anyone could possibly think about eating at such a sight he didn't know.
At least it had been quick, was all he could think. He'd passed hangings in other towns, seen people suspended for minutes in helpless agony whilst the life was choked from them. The least one could hope for was an immediate death, where the neck was snapped; whether he would be so lucky was another matter completely.
When Ster passed in front of him, the man lowered his head. His heartbeats were deafening, to the point where he barely realised when the hateful figure spoke: “And finally, our third act of the day. Save the best until last, I always say.”
The man grimaced. The way Ster said 'act' sickened him. As if this were all a game.
“Theft, assault, plotting... and treason.” Ster's eyes seemed to glisten as he turned. “You may even say the rope is too good for this one.”
“String him up!” shouted someone in the audience, at which Ster laughed softly. His gaze met the blond man's, and for a moment, there was silence, an exchange of hatred between narrowed eyes. Then he turned away.
“Well, you heard them,” he said to the guards. They were all too willing to oblige. At once, a hand reached forth, wound in the man's hair and pulled his head backwards, making him wince. Another loosened the knot on the noose.
“Oh, and another thing,” Ster added, far too quietly for anyone in the crowd to hear. “This one was caught making an attempt upon Lord Hale-Turner's life. Make sure he hangs for a while.”
A low chuckle sounded behind. “With pleasure, Sir.”
The man closed his eyes. It was pointless to resist, he knew; yet still, some small part of him refused to accept what was going on. How could this be happening? Perhaps when he opened his eyes, he would be free of this nightmare.
That was when he felt the rope against his neck.
A surge of energy rose up within the man, white-hot and sudden. He swung his head forward into something hard. Pain spread through his forehead, but he paid it little attention. Then he jumped back, throwing both himself and the guard off the edge of the platform.
There was a moment of struggle as the man collected himself. The guard beneath seemed to have suffered more from the short fall, and was trying to grab at him with clumsy hands, though a quick knee to the chest was enough to quieten him. Back on the platform, the others made for the edge. An enraged shout told him that it was probably Ster's head he had hit.
He would have to be quick now. Without so much as a backwards look, the man struggled to his feet and began to sprint. Luckily, the audience had gathered at the front of the platform, so there was no-one to resist him here. That was, of course, aside from the guards. He could hear them now, shouting as they raced after him. Naturally, they had the advantages in numbers and strength, but despite his tied hands, the man was accustomed to running. Speed was on his side.
When at last he was able to slip into the streets, he took a right turn and dashed down a side alley. The guards would expect him to head straight for the town doors, so his best option was to hold back and free his bound hands before escaping. Frantic breaths shook his body, but he pushed onwards and finally broke out into the open.
Across the road stood an open-fronted blacksmith's workshop. The man sprinted towards it. The area inside was large, with stables at one end, anvils, benches, a kiln and several racks of swords. He dashed towards the stables and bent, ready to bury himself amongst the hay bales, when a voice stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
The man froze, then turned to see a young woman dressed in a dirty smither's apron standing at the back of the workshop. He must have missed her in his haste. The expression on her face was hard, though the knife in her hands shook slightly
She spoke again: “I asked you what you were doing.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, when the sound of shouting met his ears. The guards were making their way through the side street, about to pass out into the open. In just a few seconds, they would spot him.
“Please,” he begged, turning back to the woman. “You have to help me. I'm not going to hurt you. Look.” He spun around to display his tied wrists.
The shouts were at their loudest now. The man took one last look at the woman before diving into one of the stables, just as the guards broke into the street.
The man's heart was in his throat as he crouched amongst the bales, perfectly still. He prayed the guards would pass him by, but that was far too realistic by his luck. Instead, he listened as the sound of heavy footsteps sounded against the dirt of the workshop floor.
“Seen any prisoners pass through here, Miss?” said a deep voice. The man recognised it as one of the soldiers he'd heard speak briefly at the execution platform.
He held his his breath. This was it - the moment his life depended on. His whole body tensed, ready to make a quick escape, depending on what the woman uttered next.
“I wouldn't know, Sir,” said the girl. “I've been working at the anvil, so I wasn't really concentrating. I must have missed him.”
The man's shoulders relaxed slightly, though he remained altogether tense. The woman was obviously not accustomed to lying, as her tone fell flat.
Silence. Then, slowly, the sound of metal scraping against metal. The man imagined the guard, removing the sword from the anvil and running his eyes over it. Inspecting for quality, no doubt. A few more seconds of quiet passed. Then, seemingly satisfied, the guard grunted and replaced the weapon.
“You realise that it is a crime to lie to a state's authorities?” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And that such a crime is punishable by death?”
There was a pause before the woman spoke again. “Of course.”
The guard sounded less than content, but grunted and turned nevertheless. The dirt crunched beneath his boots as he made his way out of the workshop, muttering angrily to himself as he went. There came the sound of shouting from outside, and finally silence.
The woman made sure to wait a few minutes before speaking. “He's gone.”
Slowly, the man stood and made his way forth from the bales. Clumps of hay clung to his legs, but he shook them off.
“You're a criminal, aren't you?”
The man hesitated before nodding. “You might say there's a bounty on me, yes.”
For a moment, he thought the woman was going to say something, but she turned sharply back to her anvil. When she faced him again, a knife was in her hands. “Come here. I can cut you loose.”
The man nodded, walked over and turned so his back was to her. There was a sharp pull, and then his hands fell free.
“I've covered for you,” she muttered. “Now get out.”
The man was taken aback by the sharp tone of her voice. He nodded, and was about to leave, when the woman spoke again. “The guards of this town already hold a grudge against my family. If they find out I've harboured a fugitive...” She sighed. “There's a box near the stables where my father keeps all the defective weapons to be melted down. I can't give you a new blade, but no-one would notice if you take something from there. Maybe it'll save your neck one day.”
The man headed over to the stables. Sure enough, a wooden box sat in the corner, and filling it to its brim were an assortment of metals of various shapes and types - chipped swords, bent daggers and more loose scraps than he could count. He selected a long dagger, double-edged and slightly chipped, which he slipped into his tunic pocket.
The woman still had her back to him as he turned to face her again. Her clothes, simple but flattering, fell smoothly over her frame, and her dark hair had been gathered into a high ponytail. Back in his childhood, this would have been the kind of girl he'd chased after in his village. Now, he had no choice but to leave.
The woman stiffened slightly as something brushed through her hair. Her fingers instinctively closed around the half-forged sword in her hand, but she forced them to relax. “What's your name?”
There was a pause. “Gerald.”
Gerald... The woman made a mental note of it. She ran her eyes briefly over the anvil before her, then glanced over her shoulder. She was shocked to see that the man was no longer standing behind. Frowning, she turned and swept her eyes across the workshop. It was empty.
Gerald was gone.
Anyway, digressions. The quality of writing in this chapter makes me cry. Who would have thought it would be a year to the day that I started writing this? Hopefully, the prose isn't too jolting. Oh, and thanks to all the readers, past and (hopefully) future. I hope you all enjoy reading this installment as much as I enjoy writing it!
As always, comments are ♥
Chapter I
An Unfortunate Situation
The sound of shouting was an ever-constant euphoria. All across the square, people stood, pushed against one another and cheered, each trying to move as close as they could to the large wooden platform at its centre, and the one who stood atop it.
He was a tall man, but young - arguably far too young to stand where he was. His clothes consisted of a simple dark tunic and boots, and the sun-coloured locks of his hair fell past his shoulders. He passed his eyes over the crowd before him, scrutinised each individual face as well as he could. There was no kindness there, no concern. Even the children shouted and waved their fists in anticipation.
Of course, he reasoned. After all, it wasn't often that this town saw an execution - or three, at that.
The man looked left, at the other two standing on the platform with him. The one furthest away was a man in his middle years, and the second a young girl. Though dirt-strewn, her face was pretty. What a shame that someone with so much potential would have their life ended so soon.
A sudden strike between his shoulder blades brought the man's attention back to the present. Grimacing, he turned his eyes to the detested noose that hung before him, then back to the audience. Their voices quieted as a figure stepped up onto the platform. His whole aura, from his lush outfit to the way he walked, suggested superiority - something which made the man's stomach lurch in disgust.
“A fine day, yes” he exclaimed, strutting to the centre of the platform. “A fine day for an execution - am I right?”
Once again, the crowd erupted into vigorous roars. Despite his hatred, there was one thing the blond man admired about Vernon Ster, and that was his ability to orchestrate a crowd with such natural ease. He watched as he spouted a few more meaningless lines, then headed over to the first man. The rope had already been placed around his neck.
“And now, our first - a thief.” Ster rested a hand on his victim's shoulder. The man regarded it with wide eyes.
“P-please,” he stammered. “Please...”
“Hmm, perhaps,” said Ster. He paused for a moment, as if deliberating something, but then his eyes narrowed. “Then again...”
With a simple nod, the handle was pulled, the door opened and the man plummeted through it. There was an audible crack as the rope snapped his neck, and he was left hanging between the wooden planks of the platform, motionless.
The guards were already working on the woman, fighting against her struggles to force her head through the noose. The brief sound of whimpering filled the air. Then the handle was pulled, and the crowd roared vigorously in response.
The smell of something hot rose up to the man. Clearly, someone was selling pastries nearby. How anyone could possibly think about eating at such a sight he didn't know.
At least it had been quick, was all he could think. He'd passed hangings in other towns, seen people suspended for minutes in helpless agony whilst the life was choked from them. The least one could hope for was an immediate death, where the neck was snapped; whether he would be so lucky was another matter completely.
When Ster passed in front of him, the man lowered his head. His heartbeats were deafening, to the point where he barely realised when the hateful figure spoke: “And finally, our third act of the day. Save the best until last, I always say.”
The man grimaced. The way Ster said 'act' sickened him. As if this were all a game.
“Theft, assault, plotting... and treason.” Ster's eyes seemed to glisten as he turned. “You may even say the rope is too good for this one.”
“String him up!” shouted someone in the audience, at which Ster laughed softly. His gaze met the blond man's, and for a moment, there was silence, an exchange of hatred between narrowed eyes. Then he turned away.
“Well, you heard them,” he said to the guards. They were all too willing to oblige. At once, a hand reached forth, wound in the man's hair and pulled his head backwards, making him wince. Another loosened the knot on the noose.
“Oh, and another thing,” Ster added, far too quietly for anyone in the crowd to hear. “This one was caught making an attempt upon Lord Hale-Turner's life. Make sure he hangs for a while.”
A low chuckle sounded behind. “With pleasure, Sir.”
The man closed his eyes. It was pointless to resist, he knew; yet still, some small part of him refused to accept what was going on. How could this be happening? Perhaps when he opened his eyes, he would be free of this nightmare.
That was when he felt the rope against his neck.
A surge of energy rose up within the man, white-hot and sudden. He swung his head forward into something hard. Pain spread through his forehead, but he paid it little attention. Then he jumped back, throwing both himself and the guard off the edge of the platform.
There was a moment of struggle as the man collected himself. The guard beneath seemed to have suffered more from the short fall, and was trying to grab at him with clumsy hands, though a quick knee to the chest was enough to quieten him. Back on the platform, the others made for the edge. An enraged shout told him that it was probably Ster's head he had hit.
He would have to be quick now. Without so much as a backwards look, the man struggled to his feet and began to sprint. Luckily, the audience had gathered at the front of the platform, so there was no-one to resist him here. That was, of course, aside from the guards. He could hear them now, shouting as they raced after him. Naturally, they had the advantages in numbers and strength, but despite his tied hands, the man was accustomed to running. Speed was on his side.
When at last he was able to slip into the streets, he took a right turn and dashed down a side alley. The guards would expect him to head straight for the town doors, so his best option was to hold back and free his bound hands before escaping. Frantic breaths shook his body, but he pushed onwards and finally broke out into the open.
Across the road stood an open-fronted blacksmith's workshop. The man sprinted towards it. The area inside was large, with stables at one end, anvils, benches, a kiln and several racks of swords. He dashed towards the stables and bent, ready to bury himself amongst the hay bales, when a voice stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
The man froze, then turned to see a young woman dressed in a dirty smither's apron standing at the back of the workshop. He must have missed her in his haste. The expression on her face was hard, though the knife in her hands shook slightly
She spoke again: “I asked you what you were doing.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, when the sound of shouting met his ears. The guards were making their way through the side street, about to pass out into the open. In just a few seconds, they would spot him.
“Please,” he begged, turning back to the woman. “You have to help me. I'm not going to hurt you. Look.” He spun around to display his tied wrists.
The shouts were at their loudest now. The man took one last look at the woman before diving into one of the stables, just as the guards broke into the street.
The man's heart was in his throat as he crouched amongst the bales, perfectly still. He prayed the guards would pass him by, but that was far too realistic by his luck. Instead, he listened as the sound of heavy footsteps sounded against the dirt of the workshop floor.
“Seen any prisoners pass through here, Miss?” said a deep voice. The man recognised it as one of the soldiers he'd heard speak briefly at the execution platform.
He held his his breath. This was it - the moment his life depended on. His whole body tensed, ready to make a quick escape, depending on what the woman uttered next.
“I wouldn't know, Sir,” said the girl. “I've been working at the anvil, so I wasn't really concentrating. I must have missed him.”
The man's shoulders relaxed slightly, though he remained altogether tense. The woman was obviously not accustomed to lying, as her tone fell flat.
Silence. Then, slowly, the sound of metal scraping against metal. The man imagined the guard, removing the sword from the anvil and running his eyes over it. Inspecting for quality, no doubt. A few more seconds of quiet passed. Then, seemingly satisfied, the guard grunted and replaced the weapon.
“You realise that it is a crime to lie to a state's authorities?” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And that such a crime is punishable by death?”
There was a pause before the woman spoke again. “Of course.”
The guard sounded less than content, but grunted and turned nevertheless. The dirt crunched beneath his boots as he made his way out of the workshop, muttering angrily to himself as he went. There came the sound of shouting from outside, and finally silence.
The woman made sure to wait a few minutes before speaking. “He's gone.”
Slowly, the man stood and made his way forth from the bales. Clumps of hay clung to his legs, but he shook them off.
“You're a criminal, aren't you?”
The man hesitated before nodding. “You might say there's a bounty on me, yes.”
For a moment, he thought the woman was going to say something, but she turned sharply back to her anvil. When she faced him again, a knife was in her hands. “Come here. I can cut you loose.”
The man nodded, walked over and turned so his back was to her. There was a sharp pull, and then his hands fell free.
“I've covered for you,” she muttered. “Now get out.”
The man was taken aback by the sharp tone of her voice. He nodded, and was about to leave, when the woman spoke again. “The guards of this town already hold a grudge against my family. If they find out I've harboured a fugitive...” She sighed. “There's a box near the stables where my father keeps all the defective weapons to be melted down. I can't give you a new blade, but no-one would notice if you take something from there. Maybe it'll save your neck one day.”
The man headed over to the stables. Sure enough, a wooden box sat in the corner, and filling it to its brim were an assortment of metals of various shapes and types - chipped swords, bent daggers and more loose scraps than he could count. He selected a long dagger, double-edged and slightly chipped, which he slipped into his tunic pocket.
The woman still had her back to him as he turned to face her again. Her clothes, simple but flattering, fell smoothly over her frame, and her dark hair had been gathered into a high ponytail. Back in his childhood, this would have been the kind of girl he'd chased after in his village. Now, he had no choice but to leave.
The woman stiffened slightly as something brushed through her hair. Her fingers instinctively closed around the half-forged sword in her hand, but she forced them to relax. “What's your name?”
There was a pause. “Gerald.”
Gerald... The woman made a mental note of it. She ran her eyes briefly over the anvil before her, then glanced over her shoulder. She was shocked to see that the man was no longer standing behind. Frowning, she turned and swept her eyes across the workshop. It was empty.
Gerald was gone.